


The Lady or the Tiger?

by shiplizard



Category: Dresden Files - Jim Butcher
Genre: M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:08:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shiplizard/pseuds/shiplizard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cliche smut-enabling device #7B: aphrodisiacs.  Maeve offers Harry the classic choice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lady or the Tiger?

Maeve smirked at me.

I smiled back, figuring that the Winter Lady had seen enough defiant heroes. Besides, when it comes to sheer annoyance, a bright, friendly smile beats a scowl and a heroic pronouncement any day.

"Very chivalrous, oh great and terrible mage," she said mockingly, a silvery chuckle going through her court. "To come so far for a lady fair."

"Gosh. I just have this thing about people being drugged into slavery."

"You mistake us," Maeve said, pouting. Her eyes lidded. She looked just a HAIR too young for me to be responding to her like I was. "Ellis Feder is a friend of Winter. We did not kidnap her. We do not keep her. We shelter her."

"From?"

"From those who would use her. From those who would feed upon her lust."

I sort of gaped. A little. Lust wasn't a word I was prepared to deal with right now.

"The Order of the Maenads are in your city, Mister Dresden. Did you not know?"

No. No, I hadn't. The heads-up would be great if I knew what she was talking about. Maeve saw the wheels in my head failing to mesh and smirked again. "The harem of Bacchus, Wizard Dresden. They wish a ritual; I know not what. But they need bodies. Lust. Warmth... they adulterated the wine at a gathering of the city's most powerful. Ellis felt the heat taking her; she and one other called on Winter. For ice, to cool their burning veins."

"That's nice-- it's been a week. Her family misses her. I'm taking her home."

"A week in Chicago. Mere hours here-- and a week here could be a moment." Maeve waved her hand at me, every fingertip painted a different neon. "She sleeps, wizard. Leave her be."

I shook my head sharply. "No dice, Maeve. I'm taking the lady back to Chicago. Now. Where is she?"

"You make so many demands for one who brought fire to Arctis Tor," Maeve said sweetly.

I shut my mouth, the muscles in my jaw clenching.

The Sidhe girl giggled, a pretty, throaty, sexy, menacing sound. "Perhaps a chance, oh valiant mage. A test of luck." She waved her hand; I turned. There were two doors in the wall; I hadn't registered them when I walked in; they were flush in the wall and crusted over with ice. The thick chunks of ice looked a little like a seal, keeping them fastened shut.

Not menacing at all. Gulp.

"Behind one of those doors is your lady fair." Maeve toyed with her dreadlocks. "Behind the other, a tiger."

Oh, come on now. I mean, you expect this kind of thing from the Sidhe, but there comes a point where you have to take a stand. "You have GOT to be kidding me."

She batted her eyelashes at me.

I glared at her for a minute. "Do I get in trouble if I use fire to open the door? Or is that part of the game?"

"Knock, and the door will open," she intoned.

"Yeah, but which one leads to the castle at the center of the labyrinth?" I cracked.

She giggled again. She must have been a Bowie fan.

I glared at the doors for a minute; they were just as helpful as she was. Not at all. They were identical; two flat, clean doors. Covered with ice. No markings. No carvings. No runes. Maybe there was a secret sign. Maybe there was a clue I was supposed to be figuring out. A riddle. Symbolism.

I didn't have time for this. I strode up to the right hand door and whacked it three times with my staff.

Maeve tittered, and I braced myself as the ice around the frame cracked loudly and fell to the floor: the door swung open. Nothing ugly, toothy, and homicidal came boiling out at me. Shooting a look back at the Winter Lady, I stepped inside.

I was in a tunnel of ice, very dark. Somewhere ahead of me was firelight; not much, but enough to see my breath frosting in the air. It was freezing. I tugged the silver pentacle out of my shirt and focused my will; a bright blue light beamed out of the middle, lighting my surroundings. ...still a cave. A rough cylinder through ice, like an arctic mole had been through recently. No twists, no turns, no trap doors.

The door slammed behind me; I yelped. If a wizard yells, and nobody's around to hear it, he does NOT sound like a little girl.

Man up, Dresden, I advised myself firmly, and started forward.

It started to get warm quickly. Really quickly. The closer I got to the firelight, the more I felt it-- a heat like sunshine. Or a warm blanket.

No. That wasn't right. It was ... heat like a lover lying next to me, warm and comfortable. I remembered what Maeve had said about the heat taking Ellis, and started to wonder if I shouldn't have taken the Lady at her word, just this once. I have the worst luck fending off ensorcelled, amorous women...

At the end of the tunnel was a room-- a bower, really, small, curtained, cozy. A low, heatless fire crackled blue in the corner-- it wasn't throwing off the waves of skin-warmth. That heat was radiating from the curtained off section in the corner. Through the gauzy curtain I could make out a rude bed-- furs, something-- and a figure. Writhing.

I stopped and stared as the silhouette contorted, arching, bucking, hands slipping over a long form and then stretched over its head to grip the furs it was lying on; it looked painful. It looked wonderful. The motion sank into my eyes like the heat sank into my skin; now I could hear soft, panting noises. Nearly whimpers.

"Ellis," I said quietly. The woman my clients had hired me to find was attractive, certainly, but I really wasn't looking forward to coping with her like this, fighting whatever these Maenads had spiked her punch with. It was uncomfortable, that raw sensuality in her motion. My lips were dry. There was no reaction from the figure behind the curtain. "Ellis!"

She sucked in a breath and thrashed, the sound of my voice driving her crazy. I winced; not a good move. Readying a spell to restrain her, I walked quickly to the bed, swept back the curtain--

And my jaw dropped. Literally.

It wasn't Ellis Feder writhing on the bed. It was John Fucking Marcone. And he was stoned out of his mind.

Green, green eyes-- the pupils dilated like he'd been to the optometrist-- the crime lord of Chicago lay (squirmed) naked on the bed. A strip of fur-- looked like bear-- barely preserved his modesty. I tore my eyes away from the furry mound (that, for my own self esteem, I was going to tell myself was mostly padding and folds of blanket) and up to his eyes. Marcone had stopped panting; now he was watching me, like a--

Like a--

Well, he damn sure wasn't the lady.

Okay, usually I'm a little better in odd situations, but I had never had to deal with John Fucking Marcone strung out on a lust potion before. So I think it's understandable that when he uncoiled, dragging me into the bed with him, that I couldn't remember the three syllables that would have summoned up a wall of kinetic force and knocked him backward. I barely managed one.

"Wha-!"

Then his lips were on mine, his tongue sliding into my open mouth, and he moaned and drank from my mouth like a man finding water in the desert. I tried to press him back, uncomfortably aware of the heat of his naked chest under my hands. Of the definition of the firm pectorals, of the peaked nipples under my oh my god what was wrong with me.

Marcone fell back, reaching up to grab my hands and drag them down his chest to his stomach. He made an ecstatic sound and a wave of motion went down his body, starting at the heels, arcing up through the thighs and back, ending up with his head thumping back into the furs. The blanket had fallen off. ...none of it had been padding or folds of blanket.

"Goddammit, Marcone," I finally managed to say, snatching my hands away.

I would have been better off saying 'forzare', I realized, as he flowed up against me again, more limber and lither than his gray-spattered temples would make you think. ...That gray hair was soft; he rubbed his forehead against my cheek and I got distracted by how soft it was. His mouth found mine again, and he started working me out of the duster with uncharacteristically clumsy, impatient gestures. I mean, this guy was graceful; amazingly dexterous. Feeling his hands shake against my body was...

Um..

Forzare?

My duster fell off my shoulders and stubble scraped my neck; Marcone was fumbling with my t-shirt, licking my neck while he rucked the thin cotton up over my chest. Sparks that had nothing to do with lust potions and everything to do with an inconvenient erogenous zone that hadn't been touched in years formed at that one spot on my neck and radiated like glass cracking all through my chest.

"Gaah."

I didn't realize I had lifted my arms until my t-shirt slid over my face-- I was left to struggle out of it as a hot mouth made desperate trails of licks and kisses over my chest.

"Guh," I said. It was damn well time to put a stop to this. I wasn't going to be molested by a gangster. I wasn't going to take advantage of a man who'd been slipped a magical roofie. I didn't WANT to take advantage.

Except that I did. I really, really did. It wasn't just his body, firm and flexible and undeniably masculine. It wasn't just the feral, throaty noises he was making. It was the look in his eyes; the look that said he _needed_ me. He craved me like a drug. I finally had the upper hand over Marcone and he was just _panting_ to do whatever I wanted. The frightening bastard who ruled Chicago was putty in my hands, was at MY beck and call, needed ME, and all I had to do was--

I gritted my teeth. Pressed my hand against his chest-- I could feel his heart slamming his ribcage.

"_Forzare_!" I shouted, the syllables making a desperate break for freedom. I poured my lust, frustration, and anger into it-- he slammed backwards, pinned to the rough bed, and his eyes rolled back in his head. Somehow I knew what was happening. I looked, and I couldn't look away as his cock pulsed, all by itself, and he just... came. In twitching spurts, across his chest. It was a ridiculous sight, really, his erection bobbing drunkenly.

I was so hard it hurt.

I watched silently, holding him with my will. He bucked and shuddered against the magical restraint, finally falling still. His eyes closed as he went limp, and for a second I thought he'd passed out. He was still half erect; the heat in the room hadn't completely gone away. It had faded, though, to something bearable, and I could feel my sweat cooling on my naked chest.

His eyes opened, and he looked up at me with a terrible lucidity.

"Mister Dresden."

"John."

He sucked in a breath and his hips bucked against the force holding him. I watched the muscles in his neck strain as he fought for control. "...if you could refrain from calling me that."

"Huh?"

He made a painful, puzzled face, shoulders grinding against the fur. "In fact. If you could refrain. From talking at all."

I opened my mouth. I shut my mouth.

"I have no idea why you are here, but I advise you leave. I am of no good to anyone at the moment, and I assure you. I am safe."

"Look, come back to Chicago. I might be able to whip up an antidote-" I said, my tongue tripping over itself-- too dry.

"You're talking again," he growled. "Mister. Dresden. Go. Away."

"You're hurt-"

"I'm discomforted. You are making it worse. GO AWAY." The control he had mustered was starting to fray.

I, trying not to think about what he was saying-- what it meant that my voice was making him shake and get hard again-- barged on.

"I can help. Just-- cool down, put some ice on it, come back with me-"

He snarled and slammed up against my spell. "DRESDEN. STOP TALKING OR LET ME JERK OFF."

So much for avoiding what he was saying. Hell's Bells, John Fucking Marcone wanted to get off to my voice.

I made the decision without even thinking about it; the spell burst like a soap bubble, and his hands flew down to cover and manhandle what was once again a solid erection.

"Yes," he whispered to himself as his hand fisted. "Yes. Harry."

"John."

It made his hips buck again.

"I'm never going to let you live this down, if you do this," I said, my voice low and a little ragged. I felt like a heel, but some part of me was basking in this, loving every little twitch and moan he made. "Do you really want to keep looking me in the eyes, knowing I've seen you like this?"

He made a low, keening sound that I don't think was a 'no.' I didn't want him to stop, I think we both knew it at that point.

"No matter how many bodyguards you have, no matter how expensive your suit is, I'll still know. I'll remember this. I'll remember you coming when I pinned you down-"

For a second I thought I'd gone too far-- he rolled onto his stomach with surprising speed and crawled across the distance between us like a big cat, quick and intent. But all he wanted to do was unbutton my fly and shove a hand down my boxers.

"Ugh!" I grunted, one big spasmodic shake going through me. He worked my boxers down under my own straining erection, cupping it in one hand and looking thirstily at it. I think my toes curled in my sneakers. "What, are you going to suck me, John? Think you can forgive yourself when this is all over?"

His voice, lucid, surprised me: "You have no idea," he said roughly, and gave a hoarse laugh. "...do you remember. The helicopter. What you said to me."

It took a moment to push through the haze of sheer stupid lust, but I remembered. "Yeah-"

He met my eyes; his irises looked like black plates with a thin jade rim. "I wanted to."

The world as I knew it was yanked out from under my feet just as his lips closed around me; I shouted, he gave a muffled, blissful moan, and his hand worked back under his body.

I stopped talking, then-- at least complete sentences. There was a lot of 'Stars-!' and 'Please!' and 'Don't stop.' My hands wound up in his hair, and he turned out to like it-- not when I pulled, but a gentle tug, a little extra pressure. He devoured me. He was... he was starved. For me. My ego was in a corner going 'yippee!', totally overshadowed by libido, which was just going 'more!' He made obscene noises around me-- slurps, moans, gasps. His tongue-- god, his tongue.

Mid-suck he froze and started humping the bed sporadically; he shook against me again, and I saw his eyes roll back.

I like to think I didn't shout his name. But I know it's a lie.

Then he was panting against my thigh and I was lying across the bed, stunned with exhaustion and orgasm.

After a while, he crawled up beside me.

"Mister Dresden."

"....Marcone."

He chuckled ruefully. Propping himself on both elbows, he looked down at me. "Is it your perception, as well, that all of the pertinent lines have been thoroughly crossed?"

"... English. Please."

"There is nothing that either of us could do at this point to make the situation worse," he translated.

"I really can't imagine anything, no."

He nodded, and lay down, nestling his head against my chest.

And he was right; there was nothing we could do that was worse than what was already done. Looking at it like that, there was no reason not to slip my arm under his head and stroke his shoulder.

I dozed. Well, drowsed; I knew better than to sleep in Faerie. John was still a little too hot for comfort. It kept me awake. I shut my eyes, feeling his chest rising and falling. He ran a hand languidly up my chest, started combing his fingers through the thatch of hair over my pectorals.

Then he started doing something weird with his mouth. I cracked an eye and looked down; it was a weird sight, his cheeks bulging and hollowed. He seemed to be trying to clean his teeth off with his tongue.

"John?"

He swallowed, looking reflective.

"Harry."

"What are you-?"

"Attempting to make my mouth more palatable."

As I was wondering if he'd been making an obscure pun, he stretched, shifted up a little, and brushed his lips against mine.

Like the man said. Pertinent lines. Crossed. All of them. I tipped my head up, lips moving softly against his, deepening the kiss a little. Soft, dry kisses turned into soft wet ones. He oozed on top of me and settled in to lazily map the inside of my mouth with his tongue. His mouth still tasted like me.

For a long time we just kissed and touched each other lightly. I'd worn off some of his desperation, and now he seemed in no rush to get anywhere in particular. Neither was I. Not at first.

He was running his hands over my hips and sides; I was kneading a round, muscular ass. Everything felt slow and warm, but the wild impulse hit me, and I followed it. He grunted as I rolled him over, winding up on top of him, but he wasn't upset. Exactly the contrary. He purred a little bit into my mouth, and our sweat mixed together. Our height difference was perfect, really-- sheer serendipity. He could grind against my stomach, I could slowly fuck his muscular thighs, and we could keep kissing. He got handsy; I lost my sneakers, then my socks... then everything else all in one go, and if I had thought it was warm in the room it was nothing on John's skin.

He licked my stomach clean afterward; the sight of him licking his own semen off of my chest led to a pretty swift reaction; he kept licking once I was clean, just more, uh... productively.

I like to think I'm an equitable lover. We sprawled across the bed, his head between my thighs, and I found out that while it was definitely a weird taste, a weird texture-- salty, and sort of foam-rubber-over-steel-- that cock sucking isn't as bad as it's made out to be.

It was bitter at the end, but I'd tasted worse. I was glowing too hard to care much, anyway.

I lost track of what we did, how often we did it, how long we were in that grotto. Long enough to memorize his body, and his voice, and the smell of him. ..and the taste. I faced a lot of fears head on; they faded. There wasn't anything horrifying about another man. There wasn't anything inherently horrifying about wanting this man, I realized, as we were tangled together, necking and groping lazily.

...it'd taken long enough to admit that to myself. I'd known for a while I was attracted to John. I'm... let's call it 99% straight. But one in a hundred times, a guy catches my eye...

John had caught my eye. And I had hated him for that. The more reasons I'd found to like the man, even respect him, sympathize with him-- yeah, the more I resented his guts. I still hated his business, no question about it. I hated the blood on his hands and his presence in the city.

But him I couldn't hate anymore. And just for now... he wanted me, and I wanted him, and it was good.

Then lips brushed my ear: "Mister Dresden, if you could see your way clear to stop daydreaming and start fucking me, it would be so greatly appreciated," and I was done with introspection for the next couple hours.

 

The coziness couldn't last, of course. Literally, even; as the potion worked itself out of John, the freeze of Winter started to get closer and closer. We huddled in the blankets until I felt awkward enough to cast a ball of fire in the air. I had plenty of energy for that, after what I'd been doing...

We got out of bed, dressing without looking at each other, backs to the thaumaturgical space heater.

"Crap. Maeve's going to have a field day," I realized, looking bleakly at the wall, wishing that politics wasn't the first thing on my mind. A little voice should be gibbering in panic at me. I should be disgusted at myself. ...I wasn't.

"Mm. I have some leverage; I do not think it would profit her to share this secret," John said behind me.

"What happens in Faerie-?" I suggested sarcastically. John didn't answer.

I shrugged on my duster and glanced at John, making sure he was dressed-- he was, his suit impossibly immaculate for something that had been lying in a heap in the corner of an ice cave-- before I doused the fireball.

"So, obviously, we never mention this again." I stared down the tunnel, toward the court.

"...the fact that you feel that even needed to be said makes me weep for your grasp of politics, Mister Dresden." There was something tight in Marcone's voice, and it hit me how much more he had to lose than I did-- and how much less his usual business partners were likely to like the fact that he occasionally batted for the other team. Michael might quote scripture at me, I wasn't sure, but he probably wouldn't break my legs just for sleeping with a man.

I glared at him over my shoulder, trying to ignore the guilt. "Am I getting a restraining order after this? Because if I couldn't be within a hundred feet of you, let me tell you, that would be a tragedy."

"Really, Mister Dresden." He tutted, disaffected and a little amused. "There's no call for that. You were eminently hospitable."

"..." I very wisely shut up and started to stalk out of the tunnel. My back felt prickly.

Sometimes-- I know it's hard to believe-- I can be a big damn girlyman. The warm glow of sex had dissipated, and now I just felt guilty and cold.

The door was in sight when his voice stopped me.

"Harry." Hearing my name was surprising enough to make me turn back and actually look at him; he looked -sheveled and kempt; his hair neat, his suit fully buttoned. I knew I didn't look like that.

His eyes met mine, questioning. "When we leave this place, the lines will be drawn again."

I nodded.

He kept my gaze for a minute, and it clicked, what he was asking. What he was implying: they _would_ be redrawn. They weren't, yet.

I nodded again: "When we leave. Yeah."

He dipped his head. "I was not exaggerating, when I referenced the helicopter."

This time, I kept my mouth from falling open. I couldn't imagine what had prompted THAT little admission. Okay, I could imagine it, but I was trying really hard not to.

"You are one of the most singularly extraordinary people I have ever met," he said quietly, to a spot on the floor. "You're insane, of course. Bafflingly moralistic. Inconvenient. With the political grace of a drunken elephant. And I have never wished more than now that things were different-- though I have wished it, before today."

I just stared; I'd been doing a lot of that. He started for the door.

"John?"

He paused with his hand on the handle.

I tried to form words; failed. The moment passed, and he opened the door.

Ellis Feder was waiting outside, looking sleepy and flushed with the aftermath of pleasant dreams. "Why, Mister Dresden! You didn't have to come get me. I just dropped in on Maeve... well, it's a long story. Oh! Mister Marcone..."

"Long story," I said, and John stepped up, offered an arm to Ellis, and walked her out of the hall, already spinning a totally plausible, totally consistent piece of complete fiction. I tore a hole in the world, and then we were back in Chicago.

Marcone whisked Ellis away, back to somewhere society and polite, making noises about keeping The Unfortunate Incident out of the papers, of course, of course. I stopped at a payphone to tell Ellis' parents that she was safely home-- they were effusively grateful, but the promise of a big rent-paying, grocery-buying check didn't have the heartwarming effect it usually did.

I trudged toward the lot where I'd left the Beetle, thinking.

I was going to have to drop in on Marcone soon. We should talk. Maybe about Everest. Or the four minute mile. Or all those impossible, stupid things that people wind up doing. And then once it's done... somehow it's easier the next time, not quite as impossible as everybody just knew it was.

John and I, we had some pertinent lines to cross.


End file.
